


the one who had loved him the most

by bacondestiny



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Angst, F/M, Madness, romance but in the traditional sense, that lets you know i really enjoyed wuthering heights in eleventh grade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 10:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30087480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondestiny/pseuds/bacondestiny
Summary: Behind him, Maria rumbles. Her sisters are circling above, their low, beautiful cries ringing through the still air. It’s all quiet now. The battle to retake the city had been brutal; Tybur’s trickery forcing Eren to take drastic action. He’d not begun the day intending to burn the city, but when the surprise attacks on his men and the wildfire explosions had begun, he’d had no choice. He’d had no choice. It was either the civilians who had sat by while his parents were murdered and he and Mikasa and Armin had been driven out of the country and left to starve, or the soldiers who had followed him gladly all the way from across the sea. He owes the people who chose him his loyalty, his protection.It’s a shame, but such is war. His hand had been forced. He had no other choice. He had no other choice.***Nine years and four kings after the great Jaeger dynasty was usurped, Eren Jaeger has reclaimed his throne. Not everyone can live with it.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	the one who had loved him the most

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Tw for very mild references to incest, I suppose? Eren and Mikasa still aren’t actually related in any way shape or form, but he thinks of her as his sister twice (and within the same breath that he acknowledges she's not his actual sister) while being in love with her, because this is Westeros and he’s the equivalent to a Targaryen.  
> 2\. Let it be said that the ending of Game of Thrones fucking sucked.
> 
> That said,
> 
> 3\. I do in fact think superimposing jonerys’s ending onto eremika could be fun and tragic because Eren going off the deep end has been something the series was building to from day one and he does it very well. 
> 
> 4\. I'm fully aware that Eren's motivations with the Rumbling were completely different than Daenerys's with burning King's Landing. She had (randomly) gone completely insane; Eren knows exactly what he's doing and hates himself for it. I just felt like writing this. 
> 
> Lastly, 
> 
> 5\. I’ve noticed a lot of y’all who have interacted with my works have asoiaf/got usernames, specifically Targaryen ones, so here. Not sure if you’ll love this or hate it, but here we go. I’m hatecriming us all here
> 
> Actually lastly, 
> 
> 6\. Is the title from “Jenny of Oldstones” and do I have the lyrics copied in here? Yes. But I listened to [ "The Bells"](https://open.spotify.com/album/3AOeatEAPjy1CKtdkaXaDq?highlight=spotify:track:09oEC9b2VasoCbeAruESjF) on loop while writing this, if you’d like the full experience. Props to our king Ramin Djawadi for being told he had to convince the audience that his favorite character was suddenly insane and evil and going _so fucking hard._
> 
> Agh, I’ll just put the link to Jenny of Oldstones where it’s appropriate and if you want to switch out then, you can. Up to y’all.

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone  
Jenny would dance with her ghosts  
The ones she had lost  
And the ones she had found  
And the ones who had loved her the most_

***

As she always has been, as she always would be, in the end, Mikasa is with him. 

He’d left her and Armin on the ground for the battle, to lead their troops. That was where the pair of them were best—Eren can give the broad orders and set the goals, dictate the terms, but Armin can improvise genius better than him and Mikasa is both a fearsome warrior and a brilliant inspiration to their soldiers. People rally for her, charge forward drunk on her courage, see what she can do and strive to meet it. And besides, they can’t control the dragons as he can. Sina and Rose love them, and they permit them to ride because he asks it, but they don’t take orders from them. Can’t. Don’t. Won’t. 

The hall in which the throne sits is grand. Or at least it was—or it will be. The dragonfire has ruined it somewhat, dirtied its splendor with ash and rubble, but it will be clean, soon. He’ll see it done. 

The throne itself isn’t what he remembers it to be. It seems smaller, now. But then he’d only been ten the last time he’d seen it, and he’s nearly a man of twenty. It shines, even through the lingering smoke and dust, calling out to him. This is the throne his ancestors had forged more than two centuries ago, the throne from which his father ruled, the throne to which his mother knelt before during her coronation, the throne under which his sister had been sworn into their family in the sight of the gods. Their wedding would have been—will be—in the cathedral, but just as his mother had done, this is where she would have been—will be—given his crown, finally shed the name Ackerman entirely and become his queen. 

Behind him, Maria rumbles. Her sisters are circling above, their low, beautiful cries ringing through the still air. It’s all quiet now. The battle to retake the city had been brutal; Tybur’s trickery forcing Eren to take drastic action. He’d not begun the day intending to burn the city, but when the surprise attacks on his men and the wildfire explosions had begun, he’d had no choice. He’d had no choice. It was either the civilians who had sat by while his parents were murdered and he and Mikasa and Armin had been driven out of the country and left to starve, or the soldiers who had followed him gladly all the way from across the sea. He owes the people who chose him his loyalty, his protection. 

It’s a shame, but such is war. His hand had been forced. He had no other choice. He had no other choice.

Eren takes a deep breath and starts up the stairs. The throne, even if he remembers it taller, towers over the rest of the room. When people kneel at its base, it’s impossible to see the king’s face. Eren had never done such a thing, of course. He’d been so young when they were forced out. He had only begun sitting in on the court, and only occasionally. He’d been more interested in practicing sword fighting or playing with Armin. Mikasa had probably sat in on more court sessions in the months she’d been with them than he had ever. But his sister, despite her peasant’s blood, has always been better at being royal. And better at being a soldier, and a survivor, and an artist, and everything. She’s just _better_ than he is. He loves her so. 

He sits on the throne, straight-backed and sure. His dirty boots have left imprints in the ash like snow.

There’s a drumming noise inside his head. 

It’s—It’s a discordant beat, off-putting and ear-rending. It’s so loud he feels it all through his skeleton, sinking into his marrow and his bone, and he feels the echo turn his blood to stone. It scrapes along through his veins, cutting him inside, but of course he isn’t bleeding. He’d been too high above the world to bleed. Above it all, watching his army in black cloaks on silver steeds against the Tyburs’ infantry in white armor, soaring high through the clouds on Maria, he’d heard churchbells ringing and the sounds of his dragons singing, the sound of their fire. And now the world outside his head is deathly quiet. 

Not—not completely, though.

Footprints. Eren watches her come, grinning, giddy. Her boots fall softly as she carefully makes her away across the ruined room, dodging piles of debris and the odd smashed corpse. Maria nudges her affectionately as she walks by his oldest, biggest, most fearsome dragon. They call him the Father of Dragons, but Mikasa had been the one to care for them when they were small. They love her because she loves them and because he loves her.

He watches her lovely, blood-splattered face as she takes it in. They’d spent so much time in this room as children. When they were both observing court, they’d sat together with his mother. But beyond that, they’d snuck in here when the castle was dark to play in the dragon skulls that had lined the hall. Eren would tell her the history of his— _their_ —family. He’d try to frighten her by casting the skulls in strange shadows. It’d never worked, but she’d still held his hand and watched him with her dark eyes rapt, so Eren never felt like he lost. 

Is that what she’s seeing? The past? Eren is seeing the future, but he’s always looked ahead. Mikasa is the one who looks back. She’d wanted to go home for home’s sake; Eren had wanted to go home and to take her home, of course, but he’d always wanted to rip it bloody from the people who’d stolen it in a way that had never interested her. 

The skulls aren't here, anymore. No doubt Tybur had them removed, not wanting to sit on his stolen throne every day and look at the reminders of what the Jaegers had once been. Are again.

“Mikasa,” he says. 

“Eren,” she says. Her voice is rough from smoke—the one thing he really has over her is his blood and the power it affords him; nothing from fire can hurt him. “What have you done?”

He extends his hand toward her. She looks so far away. She should be here with him—everything is _right_ now, they’ve _won_ , so it should _all_ be right, she should be in his arms.

Hesitantly, Mikasa continues walking up the steps to the throne. She comes within arm’s reach and stops, a few steps below him still. Sitting as he is, they’re eye-to-eye again. They haven’t been eye level since they were fifteen. 

“Eren,” she says again. “Do you know what you’ve done? You killed civilians. Women and children. That’s . . . irredeemable. The city had _surrendered.”_

“It’s war, my love,” he tells her. For all that she’s a soldier, she’s always had such a soft heart. “We’re home, now.”

“I know,” she says. She looks so unhappy. Why? Doesn’t she understand that it’s all okay, now? “Is it . . . Eren, is it over?”

“We’ve won,” he says. “We’re home now. You can rest, if that’s what you want.”

She looks stricken. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He sighs. “We might have to make examples out of a few more of the Usurper’s Dogs. The Brauns and the Leonharts come to mind.”

Her breath is coming fast. “Are you going to do to Leonport what you did here?”

“It’s better there are some civilian casualties and the survivors go free,” he tells her gently, “Than for them all to live under tyrants. Those who died today died free of the Tyburs. The rest will live free under us.”

She takes another step toward him. “You said I can rest. What about you?”

She’s close enough now that it’s easier to reach out and take her hand than it is to not. So he does. Her small, calloused palms and long fingers are caked in soot. “You know me. You know I’ll always keep moving forward. But you don’t have you. We’re home now, we’ll always have here to come back to. I can take Maria anywhere in the world and be back to you before sunset.” 

“And what will you be doing?” she asks. 

He extends his other arm wide. _Look._ “Bringing freedom to the rest of the world. Like we’ve been doing. Back across the sea, freeing the slaves, and now here . . . we can free the whole world!” He stands, grinning. “Isn’t it glorious, Mikasa?”

She swallows. The drumbeat in his head gets louder. Mikasa has always been glad to participate in their conquest, the cities across the sea they’d sacked to free the slaves. She’d likely have made her way to one of them, had he not found her that day. Would they have lived long enough to meet in Astapor? Would he have seen her and known her? Surely he would have. He had on this continent. 

She takes the final steps up to him and melts into his open arms. He embraces her, nose pressed to her temple, and inhales the smell of smoke and blood. “We’re home.”

“Eren,” she says. “I want to stay here. I just want to stay here, with you, for the rest of our lives. We’ll build the city back up and we can get married and it’ll be like we’re children again, please—”

“We will,” he promises. “It can’t be exactly like those old days, we still have too much to do—”

“No, listen to me,” she says. “Please. I’m tired of war. I’m tired of fighting. I don't want any more todays, or any more Astapors or Yunkais or Meereens or Vaes Dothraks. I don't want to wade through carnage and over corpses anymore. I don't want to crucify any more masters, or destroy any more ports full of people, or execute whole battalions with dragonfire for not bending the knee. We're done, aren't we? Please, let’s just stay here. Nobody will try to hurt us again. We can just live here, we don’t have to keep going—”

“Mikasa.” He pulls away. The drumming is so loud. “We have a responsibility to the world. We have the power to do this everywhere—”

 _["Do](https://open.spotify.com/album/3AOeatEAPjy1CKtdkaXaDq) you see why that scares me?”_ she says. Her eyes are shining. “Eren, we can’t do what we did today ever again. You weren’t on the ground, you didn’t see what we did. You never do. The bodies, the homes. There are children dead and dying all over the city right now, and the fires haven’t even burnt out yet. And you think we need to do it _again?"_

“I told you,” he says, “It’s better that they die free than live under tyrants.”

“Do you really think that?” Her voice is thick with tears. He hates it when she cries. Why does it always seem to be his fault? 

“I do,” he says. “I always have. And Mikasa, this is the only way. We can do it, we can build a better world for everyone, you and me and Armin, the three of us together. As it always should be.”

“The only way?” she repeats. “Our only way forward is through fire and blood?”

“Yes.”

Mikasa sobs, and when he pulls her to him, she buries her face in his chest. "Eren," she begs. "Please tell me it's not. Please tell me this isn't the only future you see."

He strokes her hair. It's smooth and fine, but dirty with white ash. "I'm sorry my answer brings you pain, my love."

She cries harder, fingers tightening on his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

What does she—? 

Fast as lightning, her hand drops from his back to his belt, yanking his knife out and—

—and—

—plunging it into his back. 

"I'm sorry," she gasps, throwing the knife aside. It clatters down the stairs, _ring-ding-ding-diddle-ling,_ such a delicate sound, to the tune of the drumming in his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Eren, I'm _sorry—"_

Eren staggers, falling onto the platform, half-propped against the base of the throne. Mikasa is sobbing harder than he has ever seen her. No. She'd cried something like this when she'd found him alive after all in Trost, after the sacking, but not like this at the same time—not like this—she's in pain, why is she—she shouldn't be—it's all supposed to be okay now, why is she—

Mikasa collapses beside him, arms flung over his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry."

Eren looks at her, open-mouthed and gasping. It _hurts,_ why—what—and the drumbeat, where has it . . .

Eren looks down at the throne room, really taking it in for the first time. The rubble, the corpses, the chunks of ceiling that have caved in to let in diluted sunlight, the air hazy with smoke and heavy with the scent of fire. This isn't the place he left, this isn't the place he wanted to come back to. This isn't the home he'd promised Mikasa. He'd meant to give her their palace and their bustling city, and the _sky,_ not this ruined place, peopled with ghosts and ashes.

His hand flies up to her side, clutching her close even as his strength bleeds away. She won't stop apologizing to him. "Mikasa," he says. She doesn't react, just keeps on holding him tight. He can't—he has not—he can't stand her tears, he couldn't sit by and watch them when they were nine; he can't sit by and watch them now, at nineteen. He feels like he's surfacing from some great depth, emerging from black, icy waters. "Mikasa, don't . . . don't cry—"

The drumming has faded by now. In its place is an awful emptiness, and the echoes of screams. He had—he had—he's supposed to _protect_ his people, be the Protector of the Realm, but he hadn't protected them today, no, he had— _massacred_ them.

Maria looms above him, roaring her pain to the heavens. He can feel her hurt and confusion, the way she already wants to turn to Mikasa for comfort. _Protect her,_ he commands. Maria roars again, and her sisters are swooping down through the great cavities in the ceiling, setting more dust into the air. Sina and Rose join her in crying—their girls, their daughters, and Mikasa, too. His vision is blurring around the edges. Good. He hates seeing her cry.

 _I'm sorry,_ he tries to say. _Thank you._

But the world is black by then, and gone. And he's gone with it.

***

__

_The ones who’d been gone for so very long  
She couldn’t remember their names  
They spun her around on the damp old stones  
Spun away all her sorrow and pain_

__

_And she never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave_

__

_They danced through the day  
And into the night  
Through the snows that swept through the halls  
From winter to summer to winter again  
‘Til the walls did crumble and fall_

__

_And she never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave  
Never wanted to leave_

__

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone,_  
_Jenny would dance with her ghosts_  
_The ones she had lost and the ones she had found_  
_And the ones who had loved her the most._

__

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a great deal of original ideas, I just see things I like, smash them together, and shake until a story comes out. (Related, this is why every single title comes from a song lyric or poem.) I've got at least two more tragic couples from modern media whose roles I'd like to push eremika into, not even including the ongoing hunger games au. (Neither of them is quite this sad.) Today I remembered the song "Jenny of Oldstones" existed and opened a google doc . Did I watch the scene where Jon murders Dany for the first time to write this? No. And I never will :)
> 
> Open invitation to me about eremika on tumblr @notcarlosshair. In fact, this doubles as a casual invitation and a “we’re hiring” sign—I don’t have a beta reader. I’ve got two lovely friends who sometimes read my stuff and are very encouraging, but one tends to go off the radar for days at a time and the other isn’t caught up, and anyway both of them are busy and neither of them offer . . . much constructive input? And I would genuinely, really appreciate having a beta reader, because posting stuff with little-to-no feedback is nerve-wracking and I do my best worldbuilding when I have someone to bounce ideas off of. If you're at all interested, let me know.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
